


The Therapist

by Dale Pike (yesiamTHATdalepike)



Series: Spoiling Sherlock in Real-Time [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Once more unto the breach!, Series 4, Spoilers, Subtext, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, The Final Problem, The Six Thatchers, The lying detective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesiamTHATdalepike/pseuds/Dale%20Pike
Summary: The East Wind speaks and John meets the final villain. (Series Four deductions from the fourth-most clever fan in the world.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sub-textually Spoiling Sherlock in (ALMOST) Real-time... What?! I'm BUSY. If it's posted before the next airing, it STILL COUNTS!

“Tell me about your morning.”

It’s making a funny face. It’s speaking to her as if they are equals; as if they may simply converse in the same language. As if the pen scratching notes across the page can pluck the words from the air; can rend the flurry of thoughts from the engine of her mind. As if it can heal her.

 _Boring_.

It tilts its head expectantly, awaiting a response. People are always expecting her to respond, yet shocked and dismayed when the result defies their expectations. She’s learned to keep silent. Perhaps it will eventually go away, as the others have.

But it doesn’t. This one has patience.

She turns her face toward the square of glass on the wall beside them. One way, or two? Does it matter?

It speaks again. “Do you ever look in the mirror and want to see someone else?” it asks.

Eurus doesn’t trust her own words, so she uses someone else’s. Therapists enjoy this. It permits them to fill in the blanks and draw their own conclusions. “’ _If you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you_.’”

“Nietzsche,” it acknowledges. It pronounces the name slightly wrong, like most people do, like the idiot she clearly is.

_She? It. It._

“...thought you may prefer a woman to talk to, so here I am,” it is saying. “How do you feel about that?”

 _I feel nothing._ “A female doctor.” Her tongue feels thick with disuse.

The white-coated therapist smiles, as if she’s proud of this benign attribute. “I know... it’s a bit of a radical concept...”

“It’s really _not,”_ Eurus snaps. Boring does not quite begin to describe this session.

“True. I was merely remarking on the unfortunate experience of being a woman in a man’s world. Perhaps you know what this is like?”

 _I need to get out of here. Even if I didn’t already have a mandate, I cannot allow you to annoy me to death._ It suddenly occurs to her that the exchange of genders in the role of her shrink is indeed advantageous; if not in exploitation of emotions, then certainly in the equalization of physicality. Though... this one obviously has a smattering of martial arts training and calf muscles that hail from northern climes... Eurus will still have to employ cunning, timing and hope that the mirror is only a mirror and the security camera monitor is presently jerking off to the website of his or her choice.

And cooperation. She’ll have to employ cooperation. She nods.

“Do you know where you are at present?”

 _Snow. Snow covering an expanse wilting grasses, bent in silent prayer. Winter._ Winter? Something. Meadow? Clearing...

“—field General Hospital, in Durham County. I know you’ve been in many places before this one.”

_...who will find me deep down below in the ocean..._

“It appears, Ms Holmes, you’ve finally returned home.”

A sharp stab; lightening-like, through the backs of her eyes; at the sound of that long-discarded name. She shuts them briefly.

When she opens them again, the therapist has leaned forward in her chair, elbows resting on knees, chin resting on the tips of tented fingers. “Home to roost,” she continues, staring at her delightedly. “I’ve been expecting you for over two years.”

Eurus finds herself slightly less bored.

“ _You,”_ the doctor tells her matter-of-factly, “do not look _even remotely_ like Tom Hiddleston.”

She smiles, nodding briefly in the direction of the door behind the therapist’s shoulder. “To think I was about to devise various plots for an exit. When I could really just waltz right out where that fourth wall used to be.”

“I do love the fourth wall jokes.”

“That one should probably be your last.” The patient leans forward as well. “So. You think you’re one of the clever fans.”

A demure sweep of gaze toward the right, a pursing of the lips with an upward twist. “Yeah, a bit.”

“Who’s Sherrinford?”

“It was code. Or some other silly little device of theirs to change the text-that-was into the text-that-will-be.”

“Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.”

“I just correctly anticipate the responses of people I know well.”

“You gave _me_ the wrong name last week.”

“No, that’s actually _my_ real name; I was just borrowing your body for half a scene. I like to play along... on the inside.” She sweeps an evocative finger around in the air, as if suggesting... among other things... a manual return to the point. “I was right about your gender.” She grins. “I was even right about _your cheekbones._ A number of people probably predicted you’d be female, but how many recognized _you_ for who you would be?”

“Lucky guess.”

“I’ll be right about Mycroft too.”

“You were wrong about Mary’s death.” Eurus smiles, with teeth, and narrows her eyes. “And elsewhere... you were wrong about the baby’s name.”

“I was _incorrect_.” The corner of the therapist’s mouth quirks up a bit. “Not sure I was _wrong_.” She glances wistfully at something past Eurus’ left shoulder.

Eurus resists the urge to turn around and look. She knows there’s nothing there. “Oh my dear,” she tuts. “Are you mourning too?”

The woman across from her murmurs something under her breath that sounds like _the good story._ She closes her eyes briefly, then returns her gaze to her patient. “Well. It is what it is.” She raises her chin slightly; an indication of _onward, then._

_Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide._

“You’re quite invested in this.” The Holmes sister briefly lowers her face into her hand and chuckles into it. Sometimes the most difficult deductions are wrought from that which is most banal; most facile. So pathetically easy, they are passed over by the racing of the finely-tuned brain. “I see. You poor thing. You once had a flat-mate of your own, didn’t you?”

“ _Everybody’s_ had a flat-mate.”

“Not always in this fashion. Which one are you, hmm? The confused doctor?” At this, the face above the white coat freezes, the eyes clouding over momentarily. Eurus continues to purr at her; “Or how about the arrogant addict that overestimates their own cleverness; you certainly play that part very well. Oh, but that isn’t the whole story; not to someone like _you_.” She tilts her head to the left, scanning the therapist’s body beneath the coat. “You’re also a new mum.” She sighs, shaking her head gently. “My, my. Quite a conundrum, that triumvirate perspective, to have all in one person. You would have made a very economical focus-group for Them. Did you know before you started watching?”

“No. Well. _Knew_... perhaps always... but did not _think_. But then my life turned on one word.” The doctor glances at the mirror.

“And so now you’re living vicariously?”

She smiles at her reflection; sadly, but with elements of comedy. “ _’I shall be telling this with a sigh. Somewhere ages and ages hence.’_ ” She turns back to her patient. “And, believe it or not... I’m actually _less_ arrogant than I used to be.”

“Last time, you implied Mark Gatiss was a foolish cunt.”

“He _is_ a foolish cunt.”

Eurus laughs in spite of herself. “Yeah, a bit.” She casts a look at the fading light outside the window. It’s time to be on the move. She’s feeling something— _feeling?—_ tugging at her amygdala; a reluctance to dispatch this silly little person unto the Hades at the bottom of the nearest linen closet. But. Needs must. She stands, adopting a menacing posture. “As delightful as this exchange has been, it’s time for me to move on. Smith will soon be neutralized. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain.”

The therapist stands as well, unfazed. She snorts derisively, folding her arms. “You aren’t the villain.”

“I—“

“ _He_ is.”

The patient narrows her eyes.   “Certain of that, are you? Don’t you find that he’s too human now?” She chuckles dryly. “By the time I catch up with them, he’ll be about to go out on a _date_ , for crying out loud.”

“The best villains _are_ human.”

“I’m more dangerous than an ant like you could ever dream.”

“I believe you. You are the East Wind. A terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path.” The therapist picks up her notebook again and flips back a few pages with a moistened thumb. Her eyes scan as if she’s reading, but her voice continues conversationally; “That story is older than the Hun that our hero’s archetype was referring to. Greek. Asian. African. Inuit. Have you ever wondered why the east wind is cast in a villainous role in the traditional lore of most cultures?”

“It’s thought to be a bearer of war, pestilence, ill-tidings, death.”

“And, let’s not forget Mary Poppins. ‘ _Wind’s in the east; mist coming in...’_ ”

“That’s a rubbish comparison.”

“And besides the point. The point is: _why?_ Why is it usually the _east_ wind that people fear?”

Eurus shrugs. “It’s scientific, really.” 

“Elemental.”

Their words overlap in the small room. _It’s different._

_It’s the direction that the wind doesn’t usually blow from._

The therapist finds the page she’s looking for. She reads: “People are afraid of change. And of things that they can’t—“

 

...

 

“—control. ”

The taller man sinks the tip of his umbrella into the chalky soil and pivots it nervously under his hand as they stand near the edge, watching the broiling surf many meters below.

John runs fingers through wind-blown hair and whistles softly. “Incredible spot. Beautiful, in a lonely way.” He glances back toward the helicopter, parked between them and the modest cottage across the Downs. “I can imagine a person wanting to retire here.”

“Were you listening to a word I said?! I don’t come to the edge of the Earth for the scenery! We need to speak now, while there is no possible chance of detection. We need to get this situation under—“

“Control. Yes. Sorry. I must have tuned out.” John turns his collar up against the damp and the wind. “Everything’s still a bit surreal. My wife has died. My friend, almost. But hey... I don’t have a hole in my face, so, you know. Positives. Thanks... I guess?”

“I regret you were placed in that position. I assure you that she sees you as nothing more than a way to get to me. To her eye, you probably appear as an agent at my beck and call to keep an eye on my brother and report his activities to me.”

The army doctor chuckles. “Hard to fathom how anyone could get that impression.” He bends to inspect something on the ground beside his shoe.

Mycroft almost cracks a smile as well. “Sherlock permits your guardianship solely on the basis that you constantly defy me. It’s brilliant, really. I should have thought of it decades ago.” He turns a wistful eye back down to the stony beach, and speaks almost to himself; “I remember a day much like this one. Windy, unseasonably cold. Mummy sent me after them with mittens and a proper cap because he’d insisted on going about in that ridiculous bicorne, as if he were the Dread Pirate—“

“Buttercup.”

The elder Holmes snaps back to him in annoyance.

John holds up the delicate yellow bloom he’s plucked from its improbable bed and twirls it between thumb and forefinger, before tucking it behind his ear.

“Do you require a shock blanket?”

“I require an actual explanation.”

Mycroft turns his back to the wild and wasteful ocean. “I thought she was contained. If not sufficiently by the walls or the pharmaceuticals, then at the very least by the ineffectual turnings of her addled mind.”

“Sherlock...?” John begins to ask.

“Does not know. And will not know what happened today.” He levels an iron-hard look at John. “And will never know what is _going_ to happen.”

John stares back incredulously. “She’s his... she’s _your_ sister!”

“She’s a security risk. She’s a danger to everyone around her. She always has been.”

“What... worse than Sherlock is?! So, what if... if he ever...?”

Mycroft silences the question with a lethal stare. “Let’s hope we never need to discover the answer to that.”

A black rage eats the borders of John’s vision. “He already knows... he just doesn’t _know_ that he knows.” His hands clench into fists. “The drugs, the mania... the death-wish. You wanted to find out what the _trigger_ is?! Your brother has always had all the answers and he _tears himself apart_ looking for the question! You can’t expect me not to help him—“

The other’s tone is equally deadly. “I value your assistance with him. It’s why I did not permit my sister to finish her errand. But if you value your continued existence as a physician, a father and a living, breathing member of society, you will _not_ defy me in this, Dr Watson.”

John lets out a humourless laugh as the truth dawns. “Oh my God. It’s _you_. It’s been you all along.”

They hold each other’s gaze.

_You keep him busy; you keep him distracted. You give him puzzles and watch him dance._

_Damn you to hell._

Incredibly, Mycroft breaks the stand-off first, looking down. ““I assure you; this is for his protection and his best interests.”

“And there’s a whole childhood in a nutshell.”

A swallow. “Sherlock could never understand how difficult it is to do what is necessary.”

“What _you_ deem necessary, you mean.”

If the face before him belonged to anyone other than Mycroft Holmes, the doctor would label the expression creeping into it as _doubt._ The next words that emerge from it are softer. “John, I have only ever tried to do what I thought was right.”

_The best villains are human._

He casts a long look up and down the senior Holmes brother’s towering form; at his feet, as they always are, poised too close together for good balance. It wouldn’t take much. One push.

_A smattering of bright blood. Skull; grey matter dashed against the jagged stones. Vacant blue stare._

_Might as well do something violent to warrant the “Mature” rating,_ he thinks. _Don’t feel remotely sexy right now._

Mycroft looks away from him and down to the rocks below. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dr Watson. This isn’t how it happens.”

But then John realizes. Not looking away. Looking to.

_No one escapes their fate._

“Mycroft.”

The blue gaze, darker in shade and substance than the one John is used to, lifts to him ruefully.

“You know,” the doctor muses, “it won’t be long now before that moment. The one when you will be over his left shoulder and I will be over his right. And he will say something that’s very difficult for him to say. A word that's taken a very long time for him to find.”

“I fail to see what that—?“

“He’ll be saying it to you.”

Mycroft blinks. A familiar, rapid-fire succession of stupefied fluttering. It’s so tragic, John almost wants to laugh.

He doesn’t laugh, but does smile, surprised to find that it is suddenly a kind one; both on his face and in his heart. “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll get the hell on with _it_ after you’re gone. But, in that particular moment, that word will be meant for you.”

“Why?”

 _Idiot._ “Because he does, of course. Even though he thinks he is constantly annoyed by you, he does. Even though he disagrees with you, resents you; at times, despises you. Fears you. Even though you’ve done a lot to earn that, Mycroft. He’ll say it because he knows that you just tried to do what you thought was best. Because he appreciates everything you’ve taught him... the things that you meant to, and the things that you didn’t. And because he loves you anyway, no matter what you’ve done. Don’t you see?”

Mycroft’s voice is faint. “There’s a whole childhood...”

“...in a nutshell.”

John takes the umbrella and swings it around on his wrist as he walks away. Whistling. There are adventures to be had, after all, on the roof-tops of London.

Chim-chiminey. What a sight.

 

... 

 

 _“ ‘...like something is brewing, about to begin...”_ The therapist tilts her head to the right as she holds the door open for her patient. “Then again. Mary Poppins might not be so rubbish, after all.”

The soon-to-be-unsanctioned-discharge stalls in her chair, staring at the door.

“Well? Go on, then! Go clear the storm, so a better land may lie in the sunshine.”

They exchange places carefully in the narrow room. The patient with blue eyes and trustworthy cheekbones pauses in the doorway. “Who are you?”

“Nobody important.”

“Clearly not true.”

“I am Dale Pike, then.”

“Also a lie.”

The therapist smiles, alongside her twin in the mirror. Both the form and the image gaze back at Eurus Holmes.

_We are the abyss._

 

...

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, patient readers; do your research. Why "Sedgefield?" First in the comments wins cake. (No, not really. Just bragging rights.)


End file.
